


Ballad of a Fall

by HPswl_cumbercookie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Based off a song, Don't copy to another site, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, John is a Bit Not Good, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Reichenbach Angst, Reichenbach Feels, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach, Sherlock Holmes is a Bit Not Good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-06 10:45:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18849487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HPswl_cumbercookie/pseuds/HPswl_cumbercookie
Summary: Based off of The Ballad of Love and Hate by The Avett Brothers, Sherlock returns after The Fall and John refuses to go see him. He's angry, understandably, and drinks himself into oblivion to cope until he finds himself on the doorsteps of 221 Baker Street.





	1. Pesante

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ValdaVermillion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValdaVermillion/gifts).



> Many thinks to my lovely beta and the multitude of others who helped me write this, it was a struggle but I got it out there after a lot of hard work. I'm really proud to gift this to you Valda and I hope you like it.
> 
> PS-A ballad is a type of song, just in case you didn't know.

John crumpled the letter in his fist as he clenched it to keep from punching the nearest wall. Visions of the words  _ I’m sorry  _ and  _ I’m coming home  _ and  _ I never died  _ flashed before his eyes in the barely legible scrawl from the page. The hand holding the letter began to shake and he opened and closed his grasp to try and control it, letting the letter flutter to the floor. He closed his eyes and bowed his head, his whole body tense. He rocked back and forth on his heels for a moment before shooting upright and slamming his fist into the wall next to the front door with a thunderous slam and a vague crackling of weakening plaster. He took in a deep breath and began to pace, muttering under his breath in angry huffs. After a minute or two of pacing he seemed to make a decision and stomped to his kitchen table and dropped himself into his chair, reaching across the table for his notepad and pen. He flipped open the pad and angrily clicked the pen and began to write.

 

_ Sherlock: No one here cares if you come back, especially not me. I barely even noticed you were gone. I’ll see you, or I won’t. I don’t care. Welcome back Sherlock, I hope you had fun these past two years. -JH Watson _

 

__ When he’d finished writing his letter he snatched an envelope from his desk, stuffed the note inside, and sealed it hastily. He went over to the where the envelope the letter had come in lay on the floor and copied the return address on to his new envelope, and ran down the road to the post box and dropped it in, slamming the flap shut in his furious haste. He stomped back to his flat, slammed the door behind him, and leaned up against it before sliding down the wall to the floor where he curled his knees to his chest, bent his head between his knees, and cried. Sniffling sobs echoed through the empty rooms, the barren walls, his desolate heart. When he had cried until there were no more tears he picked himself up and dragged himself in to the kitchen. He pulled down a small glass and the almost full bottle of whisky he had gotten as a gift from Mycroft that final Christmas before the Fall and poured himself a generous helping of the nicely aged liquor, taking both glass and bottle with him to the sitting room where he sat until long after the sun had sank below the horizon.

 

####

 

Sherlock leaned his head against the cool glass, eyes flickering over the horizon in the distance. Oceans reflected through both sides of the glass, one stretching out mercilessly for miles beyond the warm comfort of the aeroplane, the other tunneling down into a soul, one blackened and torn by years of chronic disuse and maltreatment. His heart beat loud in his ears, drowning out the ever constant whir of the engines, a mind-numbing, never-ending iteration, a pounding drumbeat keeping time as he moved closer and closer to a home lost to him long ago. Lost to him 9 different countries ago. 6 months of systematic torture ago. 4 pips ago. 2 “He’s my friend”s ago. 1 long, 19 metre fall onto unforgiving pavement ago. A home he wasn’t sure he’d ever find again.

 

####

 

John walked briskly down the crowded London street. People parted for him as he passed, his head held high even as his cane clacked a syncopated beat alongside him. His eyes were cold and his lips tightened in a constant grimace. Occasionally he would make eye contact with someone walking past, or a homeless man on the corner, or a loner smoking a cigarette leaning langoriously against a building and he’d tip his head in acknowledgement. All of them were alone, all of them hiding a wealth of grief beneath their surface, all of them brothers in their anger and their homelessness; their anchors, their homes, lost to the trials and tribulations of time and life passed ruthlessly by. 

 


	2. Adagio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adagio-Means slowly

Sherlock slowly forced his uncooperative body from its shelter in the plush leather seat as the plane came to a stop on the runway. He hissed and grimaced as he straightened completely and slowly made his way to the door where an attendant already waited to open it, his case awaiting transport beside her. He went to reach for it but she simply lay a protective hand over the handle and gave a meaningful glance to the steps and a gentle pat on his shoulder, prompting him to go down. He stood at the top of the steps for a moment and looked down at the ground that seemed to swim before him, his vision hazy. He took a breath and gripped the handrail in a white knuckled grasp before limping agonizingly slowly towards the dark pavement and the idling town car awaiting him. He finally made it to the bottom and heaved a sigh as his legs trembled and his chest stuttered at the exertion, still gripping the handrail of the stairs to keep himself upright. He felt a presence beside him and looked over to see the attendant, watched as she guided his arm around her shoulders, slid her arm around his waist, and tugged forward slightly as a prompting. He transferred his weight from the rail to her with no regard for her small stature, knowing she would be able to keep him up. She led him to the car, dragging his case behind her. The car door was opened by the driver as they approached and together the two managed to get Sherlock situated comfortably in the back seat. The door was shut beside him and Sherlock shut his eyes, leaning his head back into the seat and allowing his mind to wander aimlessly, shutting down as the car muddled its way through crowded city streets towards its destination. 

 

When the car came to a stop Sherlock opened his eyes, watching through the tinted glass as Anthea came to the door and opened it, reaching in a hand to help him out of the car. He groaned as his body stretched and shifted, protesting against the pull on stiff, aching muscles and torn skin that had been torn and re-torn more times than he could accurately count. He looked up at the all too familiar building before him and grimaced as Anthea led him inside, arm supporting his still weak, entirely too small frame. The door shut gently behind the pair as they moved inside.

 

####

 

John lay sprawled across the grass beside an onyx headstone. All that remained of the numerous bouquets that had once decorated the stone were a few twigs strewn across the grass. Now only one bouquet remained, the one John knew Mrs. Hudson left every two weeks, even then, two years later. The flowers were browned and curling, rotted petals littered the ground around them. John took a swig of a near empty bottle of Jameson, watched as a single petal fell from the precarious link to its stem and landed on the grass with a slight crunch of stiff grass and crisp, dry petal. John’s eyes welled up with tears as his mind flashed back to another fall, two years ago. A flower, his flower, his petal, his Sherlock, plummeting to the earth with a sickening crack, a crunch of bones and tissue meeting unyielding pavement, a life-shattering crash of body and earth, life and death, love, as he later discovered, and hate. 

 


	3. Dolente

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dolente-Means sad or mournful

From Mycroft’s flat in center London, near Westminster, Sherlock took a cab to Baker Street, the note from John cradled in his lap. His final exchange with the man he had come to love during their short time together was fraught with bitterness and hatred, but it was all he had left now, a crude semblance of his former self. Mrs. Hudson was expecting him, Mycroft had forewarned her that he was alive and would be returning. As it was he couldn’t be left alone without someone around to hear him if he fell or couldn’t get up to get something. It was a tiresome existence, but he was so exhausted it hardly registered with him to feel angry or irritated by it. He was just surviving, a hollow shell going through the motions of living out of pure obligation, for then at least. Eventually he’d be left alone long enough that he could divest himself of that obligation, considering his primary motivator obviously held nothing but contempt for him after all he’d put him through. He heard a sniffling and drew himself from his thoughts to discover that it was him crying, thick droplets plummeting to crash on the thin fabric of his too big dress trousers, leaving large wet patches where they fell and absorbed into the wool. He simply let them fall silently, paying no mind to the cabbie obviously watching him from the corner of his eye as he drove, just allowed himself to cry until the tears stopped falling.

 

Mrs. Hudson was already standing on the front step of 221 when the cab pulled up. She hurried to the door and flung herself inside, giving him a hug that was just this side of uncomfortably tight, but it was warm, and it was gentle, and it was everything he hadn’t known he’d wanted, needed, loved, missed, for the past two years. He lent his head on her shoulder and gave a soft sigh of quiet contentment. They sat there for a moment, Sherlock allowing himself to be held and comforted before Mrs. Hudson gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder and  backed away a bit to look at him. “Oh Sherlock, look at you. You need a good feeding up and a nice long rest.” She sniffled loudly and smiled a watery smile as her eyes filled up with tears. “It’s so nice to see you dear, come on inside.” She put a hand under his arm and helped him slide out of the cab, her small frame easily supporting his weight as she led him through the door, up the steps, and into 221B Baker Street. 

 

Sherlock felt as a great weight lifted off of his shoulders at the sight of his home. It had been aired out and freshly dusted, everything almost the exact same as it was the last time he had seen it 2 years ago, except there were large gaps. Huge chunks of empty shelf that had once held cheap mystery novels, well-worn medical textbooks, and a few aged Bond DVDs, permanently dusty with age and use. Small open spaces where a few beloved knick knacks once lay, a brightly colored square of wallpaper where a medical license once hung on the wall. A dent in the cushion of the red armchair across from his own black leather chair. A massive fragment of his life obvious only in its absence. 

 


	4. Affetuoso

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Affetuouso-Means tenderly

John stumbled through the streets of London, his muddled head and fogged senses guided him without him giving any conscious thought to the process. He was too lost in the chaos of his own agonized, alcohol-addled mind to give it any thought. He was numb, the only comprehensible thought running through his head was  _ Sherlock’s back. He’s not dead. He’s alive. He’s alive. What now?  _ He found that question quickly answered for him when he felt his knuckles rap on hard wood and he came to himself to see a tarnished gold knocker and the weathered gleam of the numbers 221 contrasting against worn black paint. He only got a glimpse of the door before it was swinging open and he came face to face with hard eyes and a wrinkled scowl. “John Watson!” John started back at the unforgiving sound. “Where on earth have you been! I’d been expecting you for days before I finally saw that note you sent him! What on earth have you to say for yourself! Get in here right this minute while I set the kettle for a cuppa so you and I can have a talk.” John, still half-frozen from shock, followed Mrs. Hudson into her flat and dropped inelegantly into the far seat, leaving the nearer one for Mrs. Hudson. There was a moment of silence as Mrs. Hudson settled into her seat, passing a cup off to John and holding the other close to her in both hands. She took a sip, staring at him intently from over the rim, set it down and wiped her lip with a napkin, and then spoke. “Sorry for my outburst John, I’m just a little miffed about that note of yours,” she scowled slightly, “but nevermind that, how’ve you been? It’s been a while since I saw you last.” She inquired gently. John blanched at the sudden change in demeanor.

 

“Ummmm,” he stammered, “been better, definitely been better Mrs. Hudson. You?” He managed to get out the words without slurring, a small miracle considering he was still considerably light-headed from the alcohol raging through his bloodstream. 

 

“I’m doing well John. I’m so glad to have Sherlock home and I’m glad to be helping take care of him. He needs it after all he’s done and been through. I’m glad to see you here as well, he deserves to see you after being gone for so long.” She said, just a hint of anger in her voice. 

 

“He shouldn’t have left then!” John snapped. “Sorry, sorry, I’m just . . . angry Mrs. Hudson, you can understand that? Right?”

 

“Yes, love. I can, but there’s a time and a place for anger and I think you need to hear him out before you go on with your life and leave him behind. Have you bothered to listen to anything he has to say? Did you read his letter? I know he sent you one, he’s told me about it. I also saw what you sent him back.” She gave him a pointed look.

 

“What I . . . what did I send him back?” He paused in thought for a moment, “Oh! That letter. Yeah, I was a dick wasn’t I?” John’s voice slurred just a little and Mrs. Hudson’s eyes widened.

 

“John Watson! Are you pissed?! It’s 2 in the afternoon! ” She snapped. “What am I going to do with you two?” She sighed exasperatedly, shaking her head at their innate stupidity. “Finish your tea and go up there and talk to him. And be civil, do you hear me John Watson? If I hear a single raised voice I’ll be up those steps in a heartbeat and I won’t hesitate to put you out.”

 

John’s only response was to nod sluggishly, eyes beginning to grow heavy as the alcohol slogged through him. He quickly chugged down the fortunately still warm tea and felt his stomach churn in protest. He groaned and held a hand across his midsection. “Is your stomach upset dear? I’m not surprised, drinking so early. Here, these will help, let it dissolve on your tongue.” Mrs. Hudson said, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder then turning to rummage in her cupboard for a moment before handing him a small tablet. He sucked on the bittersweet tablet as it dissolved and immediately felt his stomach begin to calm. 

 

“God. Thank you Mrs. Hudson. I’m just going to . . . go upstairs. Yeah?” 

 

“You go right on up, and be careful on those stairs. I’ll not be dragging your arse to hospital if you fall down them due to your own idiocy.”

 

“Yes, ma’am.” John gave a small salute her way and then went and stood at the bottom of the stairs, staring up the flight but not moving. The flat above him was silent as gazed up. He took a deep breath, placed a shaking hand on the rail, and pulled his feet up step after step, slowly but surely climbing the stairs until he came face to face with aged grey wood. He reached out his hand to grasp the weathered bronze doorknob and paused, his hand quivering in the purgatory between leaving and staying, facing his friend or turning his back on that portion of his life forever. He moved his hand the rest of the way and turned the knob, pushing the door open with a creak that echoed almost eerily through the lifeless flat. When the noise had settled John was hit with an all-consuming wall of silence, his ears ringing with the lack of ambient sound. Even the street below, usually emitting a constant grumble of cars passing and people chattering as they walked, was silent beyond the window panes. John looked around for Sherlock, stumbling across the landing and leaning on the doorframe for support as his head swiveled. “Sherlock?” He called out into the silence but didn’t receive a response, he was met only with silence. He hung his head and stared down at the worn-down hardwood beneath his feet. 

 

He was just turning to leave when he heard a faint sniffling sound, the huff of choked, heavy breathing, a hiccough turned bitten off sob. He turned back around to scan the sitting room but still saw no signs of life in the still room. He listened intently for another sound but was once again met with a stifling silence. He stepped further into the room, moving towards the only part of the room he couldn’t easily see from the door, the area behind Sherlock’s armchair. He noticed as he moved through the room how much emptier it looked compared to the last time he had set foot inside it. Sherlock usually took up an inordinate amount of space with just his general aura alone, and then the disaster he left behind that John used to always clean up behind him; dirty clothing strewn across the floor, half-full teacups and half-eaten sandwiches in various precarious positions atop stacks of books and papers, which piled up everywhere, the coffee table, the top of the desk, the floor underneath the side table, the bottom shelf of the bookshelves next to Sherlock’s chair, and the top of the floor lamp in the corner on a few memorable occasions. Mail would pile up beneath the dagger stabbed into the mantle and the cow’s skull, along with its usual headphone, would often have a hat or two hanging from its horns when Sherlock had been trying out disguises. All of this usual mess was glaringly absent in the abnormally pristine flat. Even the kitchen appeared spotless, not a thing out of place, including the microscope, which John immediately noted in his mental list of “Things Glaringly Absent From A Sherlock-Inhabited Flat”. When he reached Sherlock’s armchair he stopped for a moment to run his hand across the soft, well-worn leather, reminiscing to the days before The Fall, then he bent over and looked behind the chair and was met with a frightening sight.

 

Sherlock was curled into a tight ball, back pressed into the back of the chair, knees tucked snugly into his chest and arms wrapped firmly around his shins, hands clasped together in an obviously crushing grip, to the point that every one of his knuckles was ghostly white. Sherlock’s frame was small, his every bone and feature glaringly prominent with skin pulled tightly across the sharp edges. His whole body seemed to visibly shake as John watched on in shocked silence. He was entirely frozen, feet set like stone in the dense carpet. He was even more shocked to see that Sherlock's face was plastered with tears, deep wrinkles set around his tightly shut eyes, his mouth spread wide, lips a thin line as the muscles stretched and contorted his features with the force of his discomfort. John stood mute for a moment and just looked down on the spectacle before he came back to himself with a force that hit like a punch in the stomach. He kneeled down next to Sherlock, who didn't seem to notice him, and reached out a hand to rest on his shoulder, but when his hand was within centimeters of the vibrating figure, fingers brushing the cool fabric of his dressing gown, Sherlock flinched violently sideways, eyes suddenly wide as saucers, hands curled even tighter to his chest in a defensive stance. Sherlock's tears seemed to evaporate from his eyes and his breathing went from hitching in his chest to hyperventilating, in and out at an incredibly concerning rate. John quickly stole his hand back, tucking it close to his own body and leaning back to give Sherlock some more space. He sat back on his haunches, backing up until Sherlock seemed less threatened, and then settled there until Sherlock's breathing calmed and his eyes returned to their normal size. 

 

"Sherlock?" John called softly, "Are you alright? I'll go if you need me to, I'm sorry for startling you. I just . . . wanted to talk, if that's alright. I think . . . I really think we need to talk. I'll just go sit down, okay?" 

 

He waited a moment for a response but received none, Sherlock's eyes were blank and lifeless as he stared in John's direction, tears still glimmering on his cheeks, his consciousness lost to the depths of his immeasurable mind. John lifted himself up from his crouch with a groan, the muscles in his knees stiff from age as well as the awkward position. He stood for a moment and backed away even farther to lessen his threatening countenance, then went and sat down in his chair, if you could still call it his chair after two years and so many harsh words shared between them. Even so, he sat down in his chair and focused his eyes on the sunlight streaming in through the curtains that fluttered just slightly from the movement of air in the room. He allowed his mind to wander, never focussing long on any one topic, just mindless thoughts to pass the time as he patiently waited for Sherlock to emerge from his hiding spot. John's head began to swim a little as a second wave of the whiskey from earlier hit him, his brain pleasantly fuzzy and body slightly numb. Just as he was beginning to lose faith that Sherlock would ever emerge from his hiding place, he suddenly saw a head of once glossy, onyx curls, now slightly greyed and frizzy, the coils limply brushing across Sherlock's forehead as he rose and tucked himself into his own armchair, tucking his legs back up to his chest in a perfect mirror of his previous position. His face was gaunt, the thickly protruding bones straining against their thin covering. The skin was an unearthly pallor with just a hint of a sickly yellow tinge to it. His eyes, widened just enough to show his nerves, were red and misty, though not just from tears.

 

“Sherlock. What’s wrong with your eyes?”

 

Sherlock took a deep, shuddering breath that rattled in his skeletal chest, eyes flickering around as if trying to decide what to focus on that wasn’t John’s face. “While I was . . . away, I had multiple exposures to mild acids in my eyes, causing some cataracts to develop. They should be temporary, although there is the potential for permanent partial vision loss. Currently I am only able to see colors and outlines, although it’s all very fuzzy. That’s partially how you came to startle me so badly, I couldn’t see who it was that had approached me. I’m sorry if I startled you.” Sherlock averted his eyes more obviously, turning his head down and away in shame.

 

“Nothing to apologize for. I’m sorry for startling you,” John said meaningfully, “I mean, God Sherlock, acid?! How did you get acid in your eyes, not just once, but multiple times?”

 

“You see John, that’s quite a long story,” Sherlock said with obvious restraint  “I’m not sure now is the best time.”

 

“I really think it is, Sherlock. I need to know what happened.” John choked on his words as a wash of built up emotion from the last 2 years came flooding over him - the pain, the anger, the sorrow. Tears began to fall as he struggled to get his words out past the constricting of his throat. “I need to know why you left me.”

 

“Alright,” Sherlock’s voice was tight, strained with anxiety, his shoulders scrunched tight into his neck, “I’ve spent the last two years travelling the globe, breaking down Moriarty’s vast network of criminals. The day when I . . . fell, he had snipers aimed on you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. He gave me a choice, jump, or you three would die in my stead. That was not something I could do, but I had been in contact with Mycroft and he worked out a plan through an earpiece while Moriarty and I spoke. I was to jump off the roof. Doctors were on hand to attend to me immediately. One of the bystanders placed a ball under my arm to stop my pulse, knowing you would need to be sure. I was rushed into surgery, the body of my doppelganger that Moriarty used was located and placed in the morgue under my name, as well as buried in my stead. Once I recovered from my injuries I began my hunt, following his web through 9 different countries, breaking down his enterprise piece by piece. I was almost through, I had made it to Serbia, and I got caught. They held me for 6 months before Mycroft had managed to infiltrate their ranks and get me out. I was hospitalized for a time after that, treated for malnutrition, severe pneumonia, grade 2 chemical burns in both my eyes, several local and systemic infections, and a multitude of lacerations on my back and stomach. That was where I wrote my letter to you. I would have waited to tell you in person, but I was so desperate for you to know. I had already waited two years, maintaining this facade of my death to keep you safe. As soon as the risk was gone and I was coherent enough to write, I managed to write to you to tell you. I hope you were able to read it all, I’m sure the handwriting wasn’t at my best considering at that time I couldn’t see nearly as well as I can now, which admittedly is not very well. Once I returned to London I was seen by several physicians and received the letter you sent me, which was rather disheartening, and then returned to Baker St, where Mrs. Hudson has been keeping after me like a hawk. I left you because I had to keep you safe. For me there was no alternative. Your life means more to me than my own ever has.”

 

John sat in a stunned silence, his mouth open in shock as he processed the information. “They tortured you, didn’t they? Oh God Sherlock,” John’s mouth went thin in a grimace, “You were tortured, for me, to keep me safe. Jesus.” He hung his head and cradled it in his hands, shaking his head as he felt tears begin to trickle down his slightly stubbled cheek.

 

“It’s alright John, it’s completely alright. I’m fine, I will heal with time. I’m sorry I left you behind to suffer, alone.”

 

John lifted his head back up to make eye contact with Sherlock, staring into his clouded irises with a fierce determination. “No Sherlock. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t come to see you as soon as I got your letter, that I waited so long to come back. I’m sorry that I didn’t take the time to read what you said, to learn why you did what you did. I’m sorry that my first greeting to you when you came back was cruel and heartless. There is no excuse for what I said to you in that note, and I will regret it for as long as I live. There are so many other things I wanted to tell you when I begged you to not be dead, things I swore I’d tell you if you somehow came back, and I ruined it in my anger.”

 

“What sort of things John?” Sherlock asked, his voice tinged with an unexpected longing.

 

John took a moment to gather his courage, to bring voice to words he never thought he’d get to say aloud. He took a breath. “Things like how I love you more than anyone I have ever loved in my life. Things like how brilliant you are, how your genius takes my breath away, and how absolutely gorgeous you are.” John’s voice broke as emotion overcame him again. “Things like how I have loved you from day one, how I would have killed for you, how I would have died for you, how I would have lived for you, since the very first day we met. I have always been yours Sherlock, always.” He looked Sherlock in the eyes, twins streams of tears flowing down both their faces, Sherlock’s eyes red and his mouth curling at the edges in the beginnings of a watery smile.

 

John stood and walked over to Sherlock, crouching down so he was at eye level and taking Sherlock’s limp hands gently in his. “I will always be yours Sherlock Holmes, for as long as we both shall live.”

 


End file.
